


Nebraska

by MsImpala67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Dean, M/M, Paddling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Spanking, Top Sam, Wincest - Freeform, dean misses the real Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 03:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsImpala67/pseuds/MsImpala67
Summary: Dean is having a hard time coping with the fact that Sam has no soul now. Sam, on the other hand, wants to go back to the way they used to be, and buys Dean a toy to help.





	Nebraska

Sam’s driving tonight, because he no longer sleeps and Dean was about to pass out at the wheel. Dean watches him, even though he can hardly stand to look at him anymore. It makes his stomach turn to see those hands on the wheel of the Impala, to see those blank eyes staring out at the road, to see that long body leaning back in the seat like he belongs there. He doesn’t. That’s Sam, but it’s not _Sam_.

It’s been a long couple of days. Dean’s whole body aches with exhaustion, but he can’t quite get to sleep. He’s never comfortable enough around _this_ Sam to give in, and he’s been living on a few minutes here and there for weeks now. 

Tonight, he feels like he’s living in a weird haze, not asleep and not fully conscious, dizzy and pissed about the whole thing.   


“You can go to sleep,” Sam says.  


“I know,” Dean shrugs, but he can’t lean his head on the window or close his eyes. He just has to watch Sam as he drives, hating every little thing about this whole situation.  


Sam rolls his eyes eventually, knowing that Dean is staring. “Seriously, dude. I’m not gonna burst into flames or anything.”  


“I know,” Dean says again, then forces himself to look out the window and try to relax.  


Thirty minutes or so go by, thirty minutes of awkward silence, and Sam pulls off the highway and into a motel parking lot.   


“What are you doing?” Dean leans forward and squints, trying to get his tired eyes to focus on the signs as the letters swim before him.   


“You need a real bed. And I need some food. I’m dropping you off and then getting us something to eat, okay?”  


“Fine,” Dean nods, already calmer at the thought of having some time alone.   


He never needed time alone before, and for just a moment, he misses that time. Misses Sam. And then he shoves it away and goes back to his anger.   


The motel room is just like every other motel room they’ve ever stayed in. Dean stumbles in without bothering to turn on the light, feeling more at home here, by himself with that chemical cleaner smell and rattling air conditioner, than he has in a long time.   


Whatever. At least now he can get some real sleep.  


When Sam comes back with food, Dean wakes up without the memory of lying down. His boots are still on and his gun is still tucked into the back of his jeans instead of under his pillow, and the barest paleness is starting to lighten the night sky.   


“You must have just collapsed,” Sam says, eyeing him in that way that makes Dean feel like he should be hiding from his own brother. “Hungry?”  


“Yeah.” Dean pushes himself across the motel room to the table and drops into a chair. “Sun’s coming up. What took you so long?”  


Sam just ignores him. He does that now, just doesn’t answer questions when he doesn’t want to, and it’s near the middle of the laundry list of things about him that unnerve Dean. His good manners disappeared with his soul.  


“We don’t have a case,” Sam says instead, a few minutes later. “And you haven’t slept in days. Why don’t we stay here for another night? I’ll clear out if it makes you feel better.”  


“Why?” Dean asks.  


“Why what?”  


“Why do you care? Why do you give a shit whether or not I sleep?”  


Sam sighs and drops the bite of food he’d been holding. “Look, Dean. I know you think that I’m evil now, and, I don’t know, plotting your death or something. But I’m not. I _am_ getting real tired of doing this with you, though. I honestly don’t give a fuck if you sleep or not, but I was trying to be nice. So. Do you want a day or not?”  


“Yeah,” Dean mutters, too exhausted to argue. “Thanks.”  


Sam nods, and without another word, just gets up and leaves. He doesn’t take the keys, and Dean doesn’t hear the rumble of the Impala, so he must be walking. Or stealing a car.   


Dean takes his first deep breath in a week.   


The heavy sadness creeps in, sinks under Dean’s skin and makes his mind as tired as his body is. When Sam said he was getting tired of being with Dean, he meant it. There’s almost nothing keeping him here, except that it just happens to be the best of his options right now. The second it isn’t, the second something remotely better comes along, the second Sam decides he can do this on his own, he’ll be gone. No thought, no guilt, probably no goodbye.  


Like Dean doesn’t matter.   


Because he really doesn’t now. And Sam’s not even mean about it. Mean would be too easy, would give Dean a villain to fight or something to be so fucking angry at that he wouldn’t feel the sting. Sam’s just...not there. Calmly detached from everything.   


And the worst part is that if Sam took off, Dean would probably be relieved.   


With that thought, he pulls the curtains, strips down to his boxers, and climbs under the covers this time. In the few minutes it takes him to actually relax, he grieves. He grieved for Sam when he jumped into the pit. He mourned that loss for a fucking year, was an empty, alcoholic shell while he obsessed over getting Sam back, refused to let him go.   


And now Sam’s back, and Dean is mourning him all over again.   


His eyes drift shut before the wetness in them spills out.  


********  
Dean wakes up as hazy and drunk-feeling as he was when he fell asleep. The room is still dark, but it’s deeper now, no light trying to break through the cracks in the curtains and the edges of the door. He rubs his hands over his face as he sits up, muscles still heavy with the depth of his sleep.   


“Sleep well?”  


Sam’s voice startles him, makes his heart slam a couple loud beats in his chest before he makes out the shape of him, sitting in the chair by the window. The chair is angled toward Dean’s bed, like maybe Sam’s been watching him sleep. 

That sends a pleasant shivery feeling, an old one that comes from muscle memory, surging through Dean for just a split-second before he remembers. 

This isn’t his Sam.   


“Slept fine,” he says. “What time is it?”  


“Late. You slept all day.”  


Why doesn’t Sam ever move when he talks anymore? His arms stay still on the chair, his legs don’t adjust or shift. He just sits there like a statue, so still and calm it makes Dean want to punch him just to see if he’ll twitch.   


Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m gonna hit the head, then we can roll out.”  


“Why?” Sam asks. “There’s still no hunt to chase. And honestly, I think it’s time we talked.”  


Dean freezes, goes as still as Sam. “Talk about what?”  


“About us. About how angry you are. About what we can do to make traveling together a little easier.”  


Dean snorts, can’t help but scoff. “Traveling together? Is that what we’re doing?”  


“That’s all we’re doing _now_. But it wasn’t always that way, was it?”  


Dean hangs his head. “No. We used to be brothers.”  


“Sure. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”  


Dean freezes again, almost stops breathing. It’s the first time either of them have mentioned it. He knows Sam has all the memories, that he lived it, but Sam never brought it up. Dean was happy to leave it an untouched subject. He didn’t want this Sam talking about it. Tarnishing it.   


“I need to shower, Sam,” he sighs, and tries to stand up.   


Sam moves like a flash. He’s instantly standing right in front of Dean, so close Dean can smell his breath. It’s so sudden that Dean falls back on the bed, but Sam doesn’t back away.   


“No, you don’t. Let’s talk.”  


“I’m not talking about all that, Sam.”  


Sam sits down next to him, still close enough for Dean to feel his heat. “I think we should. I think it might help you.”  


“Don’t need your help.”  


It’s Sam’s turn to snort a laugh, but it doesn’t sound mean. It just sounds empty. 

But Dean can’t move away. It’s been a long time since he’s been this physically close to him.   


“Well, then, maybe it will help _me_. I remember everything.” Sam says the words like he’s prompting Dean, expecting Dean to answer him. But he can’t.   


They sit there for a few minutes, the broken alarm clock blinking away, car engines zooming past on the road outside.   


“You don’t know where we are, do you?” Sam finally asks.   


“Some motel. Does it matter?”  


“We’re in Nebraska.”  


Instantly, the tiny hairs on Dean’s arms stand up. He can’t breathe as he gets up and pulls back the curtain to look outside.   


There’s the motel office. It looks a little shabbier, but Dean would recognize it anywhere.   


Nebraska.  


“Why the fuck did you bring me here?” Dean’s voice is a dangerous low growl now. He has to get out of here, has to get away from this. From Sam.   


“I was sixteen. Dad had been gone for a couple of weeks, kept calling to tell us it would be just a couple more days.”  


Dean lets the curtain fall shut and turns back around, unable to see anything as his eyes try to adjust to the dark again. “I remember what happened, Sam. No need for the play by play.”  


Sam keeps talking anyway. “There’s nothing to do around here. Corn country. Only empty fields. And you decided that was enough. We snuck some beer out to some random field and watched the stars that night.”  


“Shut up, Sam.” He turns away.  


“And I got drunk and stupid, and told my big brother how I’d never even kissed anyone. How I’d never really wanted to kiss anyone. Anyone other than him.”  


Dean wants to scream and throw shit, wants to break Sam’s jaw so he’ll stop talking.   


And he wants to hear the rest. His resolve is only so strong. It’s been so fucking long, and he’s so fucking tired, and he’s missed Sam so fucking much.   


Sam gets off the bed and comes to stand right behind Dean. Dean can feel him, so close without actually touching. “And you laughed and told me just how drunk and stupid I was. But you kissed me anyway.”  


“Why are you telling me this?”  


“And when we got back here, you kept kissing me. You kissed me until we were sober, and then you spread me out on the bed. Gave me my first blow job.”  


“I know what the fuck happened,” Dean snaps, turning around but not backing away this time. His hand is twitching, and he isn’t sure if he’s about to hit Sam or pull him closer. “But what do you care about that shit now?”  


“I’ve been trying to tell you, Dean. I’m still me. I have all the thoughts and memories. I remember how it all felt. And I want to be able to feel it again.”  


“What?”  


“You keep telling me about emotions and feelings, about having a soul.”  


“And you keep telling me how much better you are now,” Dean challenges.   


Sam rolls his eyes and sighs. “But I _remember_. I don’t care about your moral compass or all the guilt you think we’re supposed to feel. But you and me? That was worth feeling.”  


Dean shouldn’t be listening to this. He definitely shouldn’t be leaning forward until their faces are inches away. “What do you remember?” he asks.   


A grin slides across Sam’s face, one that would have been hot as hell on the old Sam, but is predatory and unsettling on this one. “I remember what you feel like.” He leans forward to get his lips close to Dean’s ear. “What your cock feels like.”  


It hurts. They can’t do this. Sam can’t say these things. Not now. Not when he can’t feel them, too. But Dean can’t stop him.  


He’s missed him so much.   


“I remember what it felt like when we were young and you taught me how to fuck, how to suck on your cock. How to take your cock in my ass until we both came all over ourselves. You remember that, right?”  


That’s it. That’s all Sam cares about now. The fucking. He doesn’t care about Dean. “I remember,” he whispers. But what he remembers isn’t the same. He remembers how Sam tastes, how soft his skin is, the way he used to moan Dean’s name like it was the only word he knew. He remembers how it felt like they were gonna die if they couldn’t be together, couldn’t wrap their bodies around each other and heal each other from their life.   


“And I remember when we were older and I fucked _you_ , tied your wrists and held you down, showed you what it was like to let go, to let someone else be in charge.”  


Dean swallows hard, clenches his fists at his sides. “I remember that, too.”  


“And I remember that it felt as good as it did because…” Sam pauses and his voice changes just a little. It almost sounds sincere. “It felt that way because we loved each other.”  


Loved. Past tense.  


“Yeah. I guess we did.”   


“You know I’ve had a lot of sex over the past year. But none of it was that good.”  


Dean shakes his head to clear it, manages to take a step back, but Sam goes with him, not letting any distance between them.   


“You think I’m some sort of monster,” Sam continues, voice soft and careful. “You think I’m, I don’t know, that I’m gonna kill you in your sleep or something. Or you think I’m not really Sam. But it’s me, Dean. Don’t you miss me?”  


More than anything. So much Dean will die from it if he thinks about it.   


Sam carefully raises his arms, making sure Dean can see his movements in the dark, making sure he doesn’t surprise him and scare him away. “Let me show you. We can do all of that again. We can have that again.”  


No, they can’t. Not as long as Sam doesn’t have a soul.   


But Dean’s so, so tired. And he’s missed Sam so much.   


When Sam’s hands land on his shoulders, he doesn’t push them away. Just for tonight, he can let himself have this.   


Slowly, Sam’s hands slide down his arms, curl around his waist and pull him close. Their noses bump, but Dean tilts his head so that Sam’s lips land on his jaw. He can’t kiss him on the mouth. He just can’t.   


Sam doesn’t seem to mind. He licks and bites his way down Dean’s jaw to his neck, tongue tracing the line of Dean’s bare collarbone.   


Sam makes a small noise in the back of his throat, and it breaks Dean. He just gives in and slams his arms around Sam, forcing both of them back toward the bed, tearing at Sam’s clothes along the way.   


There’s no resisting him now, and all of Dean’s anger turns to lust, turns to the need for Sam’s solid weight against his.   


And God, it’s good. Dean’s eyes fill with tears at the feeling of Sam, because he never thought he’d have this again, because Sam was gone, Sam had left him, and now he’s here.   


Well. His body is here.   


That’s good enough for tonight.   


Sam pulls away and gets rid of the clothes left on his body, and Dean almost reaches for the light. He wants to see him, wants to see those sleek muscles, that body he knows better than his own. But he doesn’t want to see Sam’s empty eyes.  


“I bought something today,” Sam tells him.   


There’s some movement in the dark that Dean can’t quite make out, then the rustle of a plastic bag.   


Sam brings whatever he bought over to the bed and drags it up Dean’s leg. Dean feels the flat, padded leather, the harder handle, the wrist strap, and he groans as his cock jumps a little.   


It’s definitely a paddle.   


“You remember this, too?” Sam asks. “All those times I made it hurt so good?”  


“Yeah, Sam.” Dean licks his lips and curls his fingers into the sheets at the tone of Sam’s voice, at how hot and hard it is, at the promise that’s in it.   


“Turn over.”  


No. Dean’s brain is screaming at his to stop, that this isn’t what he needs, isn’t what he really wants. But his heart, and God, his _fucking soul_ is desperate for it. He’s moving before he can even tell his brain to shut up, rolling over and pushing himself up on his hands and knees.   


The light comes on with a twist of Sam’s fingers. Dean’s glad he’s facing down toward the bed now and can’t see Sam’s face.   


And then Sam’s touching him again, long fingers trailing down his spine, walking over each bump of his spine while Dean shivers. He pushes his head down into the pillow and takes a deep breath. It smells the same as the first time he was at this motel. Now that he knows he’s in Nebraska, now that he knows he’s only feet away from the very spot they did this for the first time, it’s all right there, the smell of the sheets, the rattling of that air conditioner, it’s all the same.   


Dean gets lost in it. He’s twenty years old again, and it’s Sammy who’s touching him, it’s Sammy’s tongue on the small of his back.   


“I’m still attracted to you,” Sam says. “I never said anything because you didn’t. But I still look at you all the time. Still want you.” His hand slides over Dean’s ass, and Dean pushes up into it, lets the words wash over him like they might be real.   


His hand pulls away, and Dean braces himself.   


The smack is hard enough to sting, but it isn’t as hard as he expected. The leather is cool against his skin for the fraction of a second before the heat kicks in, before his skin starts burning. Breath pushes out of his lungs, and his whole body tightens up, wanting more.   


Sam whacks him again, harder this time, pushing the boundaries between them as he pushes Dean’s body toward the headboard with the force of it.   


“Fuck,” Dean grunts, cock dripping everywhere now.   


“You always liked this. Always felt like it was what you deserved, that it gave you some sort of redemption to let me punish you.”  


“Thanks for the psychoanalysis, but shut up.”  


Sam spanks him again. And again. And again. Dean gets harder with each one, sinks deeper into the memory of Sam, groans louder until he’s almost shouting.   


“Had enough?” The paddle drops onto the bed next to Dean as he nods. His ass is burning, so sensitive that one more touch would make him come, and he isn’t ready for this to be over yet.   


Sam flops down next to him, and Dean finally gets a good look at his body, as fucking perfect as it ever was, strong and dangerous and calling for Dean to kiss every bit of it.   


“Ride me,” Sam commands.  


“W-what?”  


Sam strokes at his own cock lazily, long fingers squeezing until his breath catches in his throat. “Want you to ride me. Don’t you want to?”  


Dean nods. Fuck, he wants to. He’s been dying for this every second of every day since Sam’s been back. Dying for it while Sam was gone. He wants- no, he _needs_ to touch him, to feel Sam inside of him where he belongs. Where he belongs even when he’s not himself.   


“There’s lube in my bag,” Sam tells him.   


Dean hurries to get it, not thinking about why Sam carries lube or who else he may have used it with. He just opens it up and coats his fingers, climbs back on the bed, and touches Sam.   


Every bit of his cock is familiar, every curve, the way it throbs under Dean’s touch. As he slicks Sam up, he revels in it, in pressing his thumb right underneath the head like Sam likes, in lightly twisting his hand over the head and making Sam whimper just a little.   


Sam reaches for Dean, hand snaking behind him, but Dean pushes him away.  


“No. Wanna open myself up on your dick, not your fingers.”  


Sam smirks, and Dean hates how he’s stopped hating it, how that look has become acceptable now because it’s the only part of Sam he can have. “I knew you wanted this, too. Come on, then. I’m all yours.”  


Dean closes his eyes and lets that fill his head for just a second before he climbs over Sam to straddle him, hands settling into Sam’s sides and digging in. When he feels Sam arch into his touch, hears Sam’s breath catch, he can’t stop himself from moving them, sliding them all over Sam’s chest and stomach, feeling every familiar muscle, greeting each one like an old friend with a quick peck of his lips. Sam holds still and lets him have this, lets him touch and kiss whatever he wants until he can’t stand it anymore and just has to slide himself over Sam’s cock, one hand reaching behind to line Sam up.   


He sinks down just a little, just enough for the head of Sam’s cock to barely start stretching him. He stops to savor that feeling, to enjoy it, before pushing down a little more. The sting of the paddle is still there, burning away, amplified with the more intense burning of being stretched open, split apart on Sam’s thick cock.   


Sam doesn’t move, just watches Dean and lets him take him time. Dean continues to touch Sam, to feel as much of him as he can as he lowers himself inch by inch.   


It feels like it takes hours to get Sam completely buried, days until he can feel Sam’s balls pressing against him, slick with lube. He doesn’t move, doesn’t roll his hips or start to thrust, doesn’t even clench himself around Sam.   


He just sits there, legs spread over Sam’s hips, full of Sam’s cock, and breathes.   
Dean remembers everything. He remembers the first time he ever let Sam be the one to fuck him, the first time he rode him like this. It had felt strange and wonderful, and like each thrust of Sam’s cock was touching every part of him, was pushing all of Sam’s love into every cell of his body.   


If Dean closes his eyes and concentrates, it can almost feel like that now.   


But Sam eventually grows impatient, runs his hands up Dean’s thighs and shifts his hips a tiny bit, big enough inside Dean to nudge his prostate without meaning to.   


Dean gets his feet underneath him and starts to slide up and down, still slow, still adjusting to the feel of Sam in him once again. But when Sam growls, so low in his chest that Dean feels the vibrations more than he hears it, Dean can’t hold back.   


He lets go completely. Fuck if he cares that Sam doesn’t have a soul right now. Fuck if he cares that Sam makes him nervous now, that things aren’t the same. Fuck if he cares about how he’ll feel tomorrow.  


Right now, he’s got Sam on a bed in a motel room. In _their_ motel. And he’s alive and he’s warm and his cock is in Dean’s ass.   


Dean starts pumping faster, practically bouncing up and down, not caring how loud he is or what Sam thinks of his sudden need to get fucked hard. Sam doesn’t seem to mind, though. He pumps his hips up as Dean slams down, keeping Dean’s rhythm, sweat breaking out over his skin and pooling in the hollow of his throat. Dean takes a moment to stop and lean down, to lick it up, to taste the saltiness of Sam’s skin again.   


Sam pulls away, moves smoothly until Dean is on his stomach on the bed, empty.   


But not for long. Sam pushes Dean’s legs apart and gets between them, slides back in and starts fucking Dean from behind, fast and hard.   


And then Sam reaches for the paddle.   


“You ready to come for me?” Sam never breaks his rhythm as he speaks.   


“Yes,” Dean moans.   


“Are you gonna come untouched for me?”  


Dean’s toes curl as his whole body starts to tremble with Sam’s thrusts. “Yes.”  


Sam smacks him one more time with the paddle, just as he slams into him as deep as he can get. Dean shouts as he comes instantly, spilling all over the bed, releasing every bit of anger and frustration he’s been holding onto. It almost _hurts_ it’s so good, so freeing, and his orgasm goes on and on until he’s certain he’ll die from it.   


Sam curls himself down and bites into Dean’s shoulder blade as he comes. The pulsing warmth of his orgasm inside of Dean is almost as good as Dean’s own orgasm, and he’s moaning all over again while Sam twitches and jerks above him.   


And then Sam pulls away.   


Dean’s back is cold without Sam on top of it.   


“Here,” Sam says, handing him a damp washcloth to clean himself up. “That was fun.”  


There’s no reason for Dean not to believe him. His voice is sincere, and he’s not acting particularly distant.   


But he’s not looking for a reply. He got what he wanted, and now he’ll get into his own bed and lie there, not sleeping, while Dean gets some rest.  


It’s not Sam’s fault. He’s not trying to hurt Dean, not trying to manipulate or get anything more out of this than what he said.   


But it cuts through Dean like a knife anyway.   


Sam’s soul, the part of Sam that Dean can’t live without, the part that he really touches when he touches Sam’s body, isn’t here.   


Dean pulls his boxers on, hating himself for forgetting that, hating himself even more for how grateful he is that he got to touch him.   


Hating himself for knowing that in the morning, he’s going to crawl into Sam’s bed and wrap his lips around Sam’s cock instead of just saying good morning.   


But for tonight, he’s going to lie in bed, feeling the sting of Sam’s paddle on his ass, staring through the tiny crack in the curtains at the Nebraska night, dreaming about what the two of them used to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! XOXO


End file.
